


I hope you don't mind (I hope you don't mind)

by Irrelevancy



Series: badly, I know, but I live [12]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hypnotism, Induction, Lack of Communication, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Vulnerability, ace picks up every skill under the sun, hypnotherapy, like you won't believe, sabo struggles to open up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22239148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: Marco, walking up to him in the hallway of the inn, looked wary. But the man was hardly to blame, and Ace felt the sour squeeze of guilt in his stomach when the kiss he leaned up to press against Marco’s lips wasn’t reciprocated.
Relationships: Fushicho Marco | Phoenix Marco/Portgas D. Ace/Sabo
Series: badly, I know, but I live [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1497290
Comments: 23
Kudos: 75





	I hope you don't mind (I hope you don't mind)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, lovely anon who sent me the prompt about hypnokink. I.... fell down the whole hole of hypnosis, as you can see. Istg I'll make this kinky if it's the end of me though.
> 
> thank you lovely lucky for your ongoing help during my spelunking, mesolelot let's keep talking hypnosis ;))))) i'll call ya ;)))

Marco, walking up to him in the hallway of the inn, looked wary. But the man was hardly to blame, and Ace felt the sour squeeze of guilt in his stomach when the kiss he leaned up to press against Marco’s lips wasn’t reciprocated.

“Ace—” Marco sounded so _rough_. It’s been two whole weeks since Ace had last seen him, ten days since that den den call. A month since Sabo went AWOL. “Look yoi, I don’t know what—”

“Sabo’s inside,” Ace interrupted, because Sabo was concealing his presence like he said he would, a course of action that Ace had been reluctant about but could hardly have rejected. When his gaze went to the door, a series of emotions danced across Marco’s face: concern, confusion, frustration, panic. Ace reached out to sooth a hand down Marco’s chest, and was grateful to feel a shuddering breath bring Marco that much closer to him in response.

He took a deep breath himself, a reminder that he was the key here. In the month-long back-and-forth tipping between Marco and Sabo, Ace was the fulcrum. Today was steadying day, was tighten-the-screws day; the goal was balance restored and balance kept.

“Marco, I know we haven’t been fair to you,” Ace started, which was enough to draw back Marco’s gaze. Brown eyes bore their constant warm concern, but Ace was actually kind of glad to see that they also weren’t above conveying a vindictive little, _yeah, you think?_ Ace’s nails scratched into the ink over Marco’s sternum. “But I won’t fail, okay? Either of you. Trust me.”

A furrow further fractured Marco’s brow, more fretted than harassed—and Ace _told_ Sabo, didn’t he? That if they could rely on any one thing in the world it would be Marco’s willingness to be kind. To _them_ , who had answered his kindness with a month-long runaround.

“Of course I trust you yoi.” It didn’t look like the easiest thing to say but at least he said it. Ace could kiss him, but this wasn’t about Ace. Or, well, it was, in the way that everything that was Sabo was also kind of about Ace, and since this was about Sabo and Marco—

_Dirty semantics Portgas! Just calm down and explain._

(But, god, what if Marco didn’t— What if he wouldn’t _want_ —)

_He trusts you. Trust him back. Trust him enough for Sabo._

For Sabo. And Marco. Ace breathed, and parted dry lips.

“Alright, so what’s going to happen is—”

And from inside the room came a loud _Thump!_ Then a louder _Crack!_ Ace swore and spun around.

“Sabo I swear—”

Because of _course_ Sabo was trying to go out the window. That’s why Ace had, earlier that day, surreptitiously reinforced the entire window frame from the outside with thick wrought iron bars. Sabo’s next move was, predictably, a haki-enforced grip to shatter the wood-and-plaster wall (because doors and windows were just _suggestions_ , really, and boundaries to entry and exit were all just in the mind). But Ace, having throwing the door open and raced inside, could now slam a palm against the stretch of wall closest to him and order his flames to sear toward Sabo.

Red flashed like a battlefield. Ace, with a rough swallow, forced himself to ignore Marco’s sharp noise of distress and disapproval for this course of action. He kept all his attention on Sabo instead. Sabo, whose hands had retracted from the flame-shot wall, had gone all stiff and glassy-eyed. _This_ _i_ _s fine_ , Ace reminded himself with renewed desperation. _We’ve practiced this_.

“Sabo, c’mon.” His voice was at an even pitch, only hinting at the one that could go _deep_. Sabo clenched his teeth so hard his jawline went sharp, and when he shook his head sharply, as if to clear the sound from his ears, Ace felt his own heart beginning to sink.

“It won’t _work_ , Ace,” Sabo said, with too much conviction. His eyes were fixed on the weakest point in the wall and Ace knew he was only waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He had _decided_ he was leaving, and expected Ace to just _let him_. Well that wasn’t going to fly, not tonight. Not when they’ve already agreed it was Ace at the engines tonight. Kindling readied themselves at Ace’s fingertips but Ace could still try—

“We’ve done this literally a hundred times, why do you think—”

“Because _he’s_ here now!”

Years and years of being crew, being family, and then being _trio_ with Sabo has given Ace a veritable compendium of gathered intimacies on Marco. That was how Ace knew how badly Sabo’s words hit, how the way Marco’s head snapped down, the way he folded in so slightly on himself didn’t beget just a crease, but a whole damn ravine. It was precisely the sort of wounding Ace had hoped to avoid by just _explaining_ things outside, until Sabo decided he’d rather bring down a building than reveal his _feelings_.

Kindling caught. _Grabbed,_ really. Ace filled the room (that was prepared for this, they’ve _prepared for this_ ) with Sabo’s worst trauma in tiger stripes—twitched out a gesture for Marco to stay back when Marco jerked forward to stop him.

Because Sabo, just across the room, had shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. The sweaty pallor of his face was equal parts dread for the fire and _permission_.

 _S_ _urround me. Fight me._ It’s always been easiest for Sabo to talk to Ace. Throw Marco in the picture and tongues got tied and wishes got contradictory. Ace was here to chase down the loveliest potential of that, dammit. _Take me down, no matter what._

 _Trust me_ , Ace had said. _I can_.

So Ace sent _hotaru_ scattering into the air.

He had made sure to eat extra before this, to be well-rested in anticipation of conjuring various forms of his fire all at once. There was the fire that spilled in a river from Ace’s feet, meandering plasma that traced temporary eddies into the floorboards painted with fireproof sealant. There was the fire that streaked around the walls of the room like the tail of a particularly energetic fox before splitting into rattails and then merging again. There was the tiny green dancers floating around in literal beelines, patterned but barely predictable for them.

Marco, Ace thought, must be so confused by this total deviation from Ace’s standard method of flaming-fist-to-the-head. But this wasn’t a fight—at least not in the traditional sense. This was a show, meant to A, override Sabo’s rational judgment about these fire and the actual probability of them bringing harm to him (a.k.a. zero), and B, distract. Sabo was a seasoned fighter with not only training but also raw talent; getting his rapt attention to cede enough ground that Ace could step in and find a foothold was difficult to say the least.

But Ace had a secret weapon: Sabo _wanted_ Ace to win, whether Sabo cared to admit it or not. So Ace was going to win.

The fire deluged. He first drew Sabo’s gaze to the right, his left with a light flick of his wrist.

“You’ve worked so hard for this,” Ace declared loudly, and Sabo’s eyes shot back to him, before swiftly refocusing on the floaters of _hotaru_ almost right beside his face and flinching out of the way. And back to Ace, “don’t give up now.”

“I’m not giving up.” Sabo’s body in battle was usually a beautiful sight to behold, but not so much today, with the uncommitted tightness and jarring joints. Ace needed him ready to plunge fully into war. “I’m being realistic.”

“That’s not realistic,” Ace denounced, because words could be wars too. Sabo’s gaze came back to him strained and frustrated, before Ace had it running up to chase a red isosceles across the ceiling. “You know as well as I do that this won’t work if you don’t think you can make it work—”

“—it’s _because_ I know I can’t do this that I’m telling you—”

“—that’s coward’s talk and you know it—”

Ace found the breath of this battle as easily and instinctively as he’s found that of every battle, because this was a room of prodigious fighters. They could all press fingers to pulses of flying fists and scything feet, and it was probably thanks to that (and the intimacies Marco knew of him and Sabo) that Marco wasn’t interrupting this very peculiar fight.

It was also thanks to that, that Sabo anticipated the real offensive flare of fire, the column that sprang toward him from his blindspot while Ace’s words distracted. He slammed his eyes shut and pivoted to sock the fire away—haki helped the effort, of course. And because the fire was part of Ace, _was_ Ace, Ace knew exactly when it would dissipate, go invisible as oxygen. And this handle on the timing would allow Ace to duck in and make sure he appeared dead center in Sabo’s line of sight just as Sabo’s battle instincts made him most feral, and Sabo with gnashing teeth would _come_ at Ace with a fist and—

Every fire extinguished. Ace completely dropped his guard. Just, went loose with it, an easy spine and an easy grin, the biggest friendliest one for when Sabo alighted on the Moby for the first time in weeks. The one that was sure to—

Sabo faltered. He couldn’t exactly freeze, since his body had been seized tense for battle, so what happened was more like a stuttered _loosening_ , an _opening_ in the battle definition of the word but with none of the threatening knuckles, because the moment Sabo pulled the punch and the moment Sabo’s mind _tripped_ in between fighting and friendly was the moment Ace has already _won_.

“Hey, Sabo, look at me and—” A finger to guide Sabo’s exhausted eyes one last time to Ace’s and the other hand to hide the room the whole damn world from Sabo’s mind by cupping over Sabo’s eyes and forehead and bringing him down. “— _sleep_.”

Sabo went loose with it too, and _dropped_.

* * *

_Hypnosis_.

Marco’s heard of it of course, has even seen it done on the Moby once to a very mild degree. Being hypnotized took willingness on the part of the participant, he knew that much. He felt enough apprehension about it that he’s never let himself get taken under, but enough skepticism (since he’s never been taken under) to incubate a healthy bed of curiosity underneath.

Marco’s never imagined he’d see it done by _Ace_. To _Sabo_.

There was the immediate incredulity; _Why would they need to do this?_ was a question quickly transformed to, _is this a joke?_ Ace was standing now with Sabo’s head bowed in front of him, oddly tucked against his shoulder—he was murmuring, a steady stream of sentences in instructive tones that seemed to include liberal application of the words _relax_ and _deeper_. And Sabo was—he was—

How long has it been, since Marco’s last laid eyes on that dirty blond? Since Marco’s last touched those hands (gloved or not), since he’s last held that familiar width of shoulders in sleep?

(Thirty-two days, fourteen hours.)

Sabo wasn’t fully relaxed—not yet, if the sheer _will_ radiating from Ace’s body, even just from the back, had anything to say about it. Marco couldn’t help but draw closer; his feet leaving the floor felt like ripping a bandage off, after Ace’s earlier little gesture (full of command) for him to stay. But Ace didn’t stop or reprimand him, just kept holding Sabo to his shoulder as Marco got near enough to hear the words he was murmuring.

“—bo, come on, it’s _me_. It’s Ace. You trust me. Here, you have my hand, feel that? We’re gonna go deeper, alright? Together, you and me.”

 _I know we haven’t been fair to you_. Really, that had been big of Ace to admit, to just come right out and say. Marco knew he should feel glad, but after a month of being iced out with absolutely no explanation, all Marco had been able to hear from Ace’s lips were _we_ and _you_. _We’re us and you’re you_. If Marco’s learned anything from being the son of an Earthquake Man, it was that deep, earth-splitting gulfs sometimes just _opened_ with no rhyme or reason, and hadn’t Marco been so _ready_ , once upon a time, to let the pieces crumble in those exact proportions? In thirds—two for them and one for Marco. _There’s them and here’s me._

Marco’s feet faltered in their approach, and all of a sudden he couldn’t physically make himself move any further. Ace didn’t even need to gesture this time to keep him away.

“We’re going deeper,” Ace was still saying, and even Marco could tell Sabo’s breaths were getting slower, more undulating. “It’s dark, but I’m there to guide the way—see? Benefits of being fire, baby. You just gotta follow me, alright? _I’m_ going deeper and you’re coming with me. Keep me in your sights now, don’t let me get too far ahead—Hey, good job, we’re sinking together. And I still have your hand, feel that? We’re still sinking, and everything is dark, but I have your hand. You’re looking right at me, right at the fire and I’ve _got_ you.”

...But this was _Ace_ , Ace of the guiding light and warmth. Whatever Sabo’s being asked to do slumped over like that, Marco was doing just as willingly with eyes wide open. The despair had gathered and festered, but he still had enough wherewithal to focus on the hope beneath the tar. Ace was asking him to _just follow_ , so follow he shall. He was putting his entire heart (and soul and body) in the hands of these two men (but then again, what else was new), hoping so pathetically that _this wasn’t just a joke_.

Sabo went unnervingly pliant, while still remaining mobile in Ace’s arms. Carefully, Ace shuffled them both over to the bed right behind Sabo (where the imprint of where Sabo had sat, just before attempting to launch himself out the window, Marco guessed) and sat Sabo down. Chin nearly to chest, Sabo looked—well, not asleep, because Marco knew that even asleep, Sabo didn’t have this level of laxness in his spine.

Marco was so preoccupied with parsing this uncanny vision of Sabo that it took him a full moment to realize Ace was now looking back at him. Whatever Ace had seen on his face had put quite a sad affect in Ace’s eyes.

With a soft tilt of his head, Ace beckoned Marco closer. Marco got closer.

“You remember our room on York,” Ace said to Sabo. The part of Marco’s brain that didn’t shut off for things like this quickly sifted through memories and trajectories and timelines, and came up with a picture of—of course—hurt. _I can’t tell you that_ , Ace had said when Marco asked if he was with Sabo. Clearly, he had been. _We just… We need to give him some time, yeah? He’ll work this out_.

(Ace had clearly meant _we’ll_ work this out. Iced out, shut out— _stop_. Marco was _here_ now, and if it felt so cold it hurt, just get closer. Get closer to the flame and lean into the pain, and whether that was the pain of thawing or the pain of charring… Well. Either way, Marco just had to _sink_ into it and see what came out the other side.)

—the room on York. Right. The one that Marco was never at.

“Remember that I had you lie flat on the bed.” Marco saw the gesture—just a little tap of Ace’s index finger on the side of Sabo’s knee, like flicking the bookmark sticking up out of pages. Ace glanced at Marco again, a quick little dash of pupils over and back. “Tell me—what color was the ceiling?”

“Dark blue,” Sabo answered readily. Ace glanced again.

 _Oh_. This was, Marco thought numbly, one hundred percent completely real. No joke, because Sabo would never joke like this. Sabo's speech wasn’t slurring, like Marco knew people's sometimes did when they were put under, but his _dark blue_ had been so simple. So direct. So short, and in short, nothing at all like how Sabo would normally answer. This was real ( _fuck_ ), and Ace had taken the step to prove it to him.

(Which still begged the question, _why—?_ )

“Very good,” Ace complimented, and he sounded so earnestly encouraging to Sabo that Marco ached with it. A tension at the very top of Sabo’s brow eased at the praise. “You’re exactly where I asked you to be. You’re _good_ at remembering, aren’t you? When I had you lying down, you told me you store all your memories on a shelf of files and books, didn’t you?”

(Yet another fact of Sabo that Marco hadn’t known, had never been told, and Marco was _really_ ready to be put out of his misery. Any time now.)

“And then you got up and showed me that shelf. Show me again now. We’re standing front of this huge, _huge_ bookshelf, and it’s full of everything you know. Find a memory for me, yeah? It’ll be a thick folder, ‘cause we’ve done this so many times already—find the memory of all the times we took down your walls. Got it?”

Because this was no metaphor at all ( _one hundred percent completely real_ ), Sabo’s fingers twitched in his lap, the gestures clearly of a man sifting through a huge ( _huge_ ) shelf of files and books. Ace watched his fingers too, and hummed when the motions stalled.

“Yeah, that’s it? Good. Now pull it down and crack it open for me. You have it? Show me.”

Relinquishing the grip on Ace, both of Sabo’s palms fell open in his lap, like he was holding out an open book. _Folder_ , Marco reminded himself. It was a thick folder full of memories. Marco didn’t understand the parameters of the memories Ace had Sabo extract (but what’s one more thing he didn’t understand about the situation at, well, hand?), but was starting to see the illumination of one possible answer to his question.

( _Why?_ )

( _—because he can’t even trust you enough to tell you something without first jumping through a hundred flaming hoops._ )

( _What the fuck have you_ done _to him, Marco?_ )

While Marcos’ mood was rapidly dilapidating Ace was still telling a story: “There it is. And you remember what’s kept inside, right? These—” And even though Sabo’s eyes were closed and his chin still touched his chest, he mirrored Aces’s head turn to Sabo’s empty (but not truly empty) palms. “These are your defenses, aren’t they? We’ve turned them into paper and laid them flat, remember? But these are the walls you’ve built around yourself.”

The thought that Marco’s done something to make Sabo feel so fucking _guarded_ , that it took a month of fucking off to Ace-knew-where and Ace giving him goddamn _hypnotherapy_ to confront Marco about it—it didn’t sting, it obliterated. Marco plunged, and this was no foreign chasm, but the too-sudden chest-deep submersion still tore at him, facilitating an all-too-literal depression like someone had taken their thumb and just pressed _in_ Marco’s heart.

Sabo’s walls were in his hands, but Marco’s have long-since fucked off somewhere else. Been tossed out, really, by his own willing hands, so who else could be to blame—

Ace grabbed Marco’s fingers, the ones closest to him, and _squeezed_. Like he knew exactly what was going on in Marco’s mind (and maybe he did, given the perfect precision with which he was mapping out Sabo’s), Ace’s eyes were begging, _don’t_. The shape of his hand clutched around Marco’s said, _just follow me for a little bit longer_.

Feeling for a first time in a long while that fire just might be _dangerous_ , Marco let his breath out in a shaky exhale. Squeezed Ace’s hand weakly back.

Ace’s voice, when he returned to Sabo, was impressively steady. Marco wanted to scoff, but really just felt grateful instead, for something he could lean against.

“These paper walls… Well they’re good for you generally. They help you do your job and they keep you from being hurt, and that’s great. But—oh, there’s something written across the top of that page there. _I don’t want these up right now_. Hey, isn’t that your handwriting, Sabo? I don’t want these up right now. You’ve written that, haven’t you?”

“I—yes.” That voice came out of the deep, unshakable foundation of trust between Sabo and Ace. All while Marco could still feel the tremors coursing through his own cracking body.

“See? I’m never wrong about you, am I?” Ace’s voice was so suffused with warmth, Marco’s hand felt burnt. _Crack_. “So I just need you to do one more thing for me, and it’s _so_ easy, so easy Sabo we’ve already done it many times before. In fact, we’ve already done the first step, haven’t we? Turn the walls into paper and lay them flat, check. You’ve got them in your hands now, and I just need you to hold them still while I take my fire and burn them away, alright?”

Like theater, little bursts of flames harmlessly crackled and fizzled in the air around them. Baby sparks showered the shoulders of Sabo’s jacket, and he didn’t even flinch.

“You can still see all your memories safely on the shelf in front of you,” Ace was saying considerately, “the fire won’t touch them. All I’m going to do is burn up those papers in your hands. The walls, they’re made of paper, and I’m gonna burn them up in three, two, _one_.”

Ace’s fingers curled in a snap right next to Sabo’s face, and a little shot of fire slicked up through the knuckles and nails before dissipating into space. Sabo’s lips went just the little bit whiter, that time.

“Did you see them go?”

White meant tension, meant the spread of sharper geometry up Sabo’s jaws and cheek until his frown was clear even in profile. This wasn’t Sabo’s angry, I’m-going-to-destroy-all-that’s-in-my-way frown, not by a long shot. This was a frown that Marco was willing to bet not even Ace has seen all that often—the one that might come right before a distress call. One that so clearly telegraphed, _oh no_.

“They’re not gone?” _Still_ impressively steady. Ace glanced down at Sabo’s palms still opened in his lap. “They’re still in your hands? Tell me what happened, Sabo.”

“They’re up again,” was all Sabo whispered, and it seemed like nonsense until Marco remembered that Ace had him holding walls. Ace considered the bare palms, clearly recalibrating.

“And they’re not paper anymore, are they?” Ace shifted, redirected, headed down a different path. “Have they gone another color?”

Sabo nodded.

“What color?”

“Black.”

“Like haki?” And that was a full _chuckle_ , so convincingly easy and amused. Ace’s hand though, was no less tight in its clutch on Marco’s. “You’ve gone and protected them. Why would you need to protect them from me?” Marco couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Sabo’s jaw tremble a little. “Haki’s heavier than paper, isn’t it? And you’ve got all the walls up there in your hands… You can’t even close your hands, can you? Go ahead, try to close your palms together for me.”

It must be magic, Marco thought dumbly. Or some secondary devil’s fruit power that they’ve somehow never known about. How else to explain the way Sabo’s hands—strong enough to crush wood and granite, warp _steel_ for fuck’s sake—shook with obvious strain, but couldn’t actually close together?

“See? Look how strong you’ve made them, look how strong a protection you’ve given them.” Tenderness—more the ache than the soothe of it—synchronized across all three of their breaths for the first time that evening, and Marco let himself stretch with the pain. Ace sounded so cherishing of Sabo and what Sabo was going through ( _because of Marco_ ), and Marco blearily told himself that if this was how they wanted this to happen, then obliging was the least Marco could do. He could wait to apologize. He could wait to quietly leave. He could.

“Hey, you’re inside there, aren’t you?” Marco’s hand had gone limp but Ace was keeping himself shackled around Marco’s wrist. “You’re inside the walls. Have a look around—do you see me anywhere? Am I with you?” There must’ve been a cue that Marco didn’t catch, because Ace huffed out a relieved laugh. “Yeah, you see me don’t you? Been with you this whole time, before the walls went up.”

Some people didn’t hurt to be let in.

“So we’re in here, it’s dark but it’s great! I’ve got light and heat enough for us both. Except...”

Some people didn’t hurt him _being_ let in.

“There’s someone else you want to let in, isn’t there?” Ace was looking at Marco, but Marco couldn’t bring himself to look back. Ace squeezed at Marco’s hand again but Marco couldn’t— “We haven’t been taking down your walls for no reason. There’s someone else we want in here with us. And he hasn’t been with us from the beginning, but he’s here now, right outside those walls. And we gotta let him in. _I_ want to let him in, don’t you?”

Sabo’s entire body shot instantly tense, and haki— _true_ haki—coated his hands like his favorite gloves. That was it—Marco flinched back, intending to pull himself free of Ace’s grip and put an end to this whole thing, this _farce_ that Sabo clearly didn’t want to happen—

“Ace, just—”

“ _Hush_.”

Ace’s fingers _scorched_ when they yanked Marco down—hard—to his knees. Ace clearly wasn’t ready to give up, and Marco couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss or throttle the guy. If Sabo was trying to leave it was difficult for Marco to imagine Ace making him stay, but if Ace was doing this for Marco’s sake then how could Marco let him know that he didn’t _need_ to, that Sabo wanting out was _fine_ , was truly _fine_ , and so what if Ace in all likelihood would go with him, so what if Sabo leaving alone already felt like all of Marco’s organs gone, and Ace leaving too would surely mean the tearing out of Marco’s entire ribcage and spine—that’s _fine_. Just one huge depression, big and deep enough to bury a single man twice over. Fine.

Ace dropped Marco’s hand and went to Sabo. Palms glided under Sabo’s knuckles until it looked like Sabo’s hands were now the book Ace held open.

“ _Sabo_.” That tone was… different. Mean wasn’t the word for it, because Ace was still kind (still too kind to just put Marco down quick), but he was now exerting _force_. “Sabo, you have the walls built up so strong to protect you. But they’re heavy, so heavy they weigh you down and immobilize you. And you’re _scared_ of the fire because it destroys, I know this, but I’m the one wielding the fire, aren’t I? Feel that? I’ve got your hands, and I’ve got _you_. And will I ever let you get hurt like that, ever again? Answer me.”

“No.”

The answer that would’ve come out bitten and chewed and then quickly buried under layers of misdirection had Sabo been fully awake—Marco could still hear a hint of the conscious Sabo underneath it, even now. He sounded so _vulnerable_ , and scared to be, even for Ace. Marco was still gale-whipped by pain and confusion, but some new glimmer of an idea had materialized for just a split moment like a mirage among the sand. _You’re scared of the fire._ Maybe this had less to do with something _Marco’s_ done (because Marco’s wracked and wracked and _wracked_ his memories for what he’d done one month ago to wrong Sabo, and had yet to come up with a convincing explanation), and more to do with something Sabo _was_.

“That’s right,” Ace continued, some fever to his insistence now. “You’re also worried that once your walls go down you’ll never get them back up again, but you know you don’t have to worry about that. You _know_ , right? Because once you let that man who’s standing right outside—once you let him _in_?” The heat and brightness that practically poured off of Ace was as good as touch, as good as a whole-palmed grip in keeping Marco kneeling right where he was and _listening_. “You _know_ what he does with fire. You remember him coming back from the fire. You remember him bringing _us_ back from the fire. You remember him.”

“Marco.”

Marco _shook_ , fully seismic. How long has it been since he’s heard—thirty-two days, fifteen hours—

“And you _remember—_ ” Ace. Ace. Always Ace. “—why we’re doing this.”

“For Marco.”

Hadn’t Marco, once upon a time, compelled Sabo to remember Ace? But this was no debt repaid; this was a tipping of scales so far that the only way Marco could pay back all that he owed was if he lived and lived and _lived_ , well into the promised eternity of his fruit, just for them. And sure, some part of Marco still sneered at himself and muttered _so this is all the effort it takes for him to love you, hm?_ and it was a nasty, sinking place that wanted to pull Marco down until even his mouth and nose were submerged but—

No. No, he refused. Ace said that Sabo _remembered_ ; and Marco wouldn’t insult Sabo’s memory like that.

“So he’s here.” Ace’s voice was like velcro, every fiber of Marco parting so willingly to weave into its hooks. Sabo was straining forward too, on the verge of tipping straight into Ace. “He’s reaching for you. We’re going to let my flames take down those walls so he can come through, alright? All you have to do is let the haki go, because I’m not going to hurt you. Let the walls be paper again. Sabo, _remember_ why we’re doing this, and here I go. The walls are going to burn away in three, two, _one_.”

Ace snapped, and the haki drained away from Sabo’s hands.

“Now close your palms together for me.”

Sabo did, peacefully and quietly like closing the cover of a finished book.

Ace’s hand, the one he had snapped with, touched gently at Marco’s once again. His thumb soothed Marco through the trembling, rubbed circles until all the swirling blue fire underneath (because at some point Marco had stopped breathing, and instead of stagnated blood, phoenix flames had taken over the job of circulating life through their master’s frozen body) dissipated, and Marco’s lungs reinflated again.

Then he brought Marco’s hand over to Sabo’s. Laid it over the still-joined palms.

( _How long—_ )

Sabo didn’t flinch.

“ _Very_ good. You did so well.” Ace might have faked the steadiness earlier, but he surely wasn’t faking the emotions now. His fingers were so hot pressed to Marco’s. “Marco’s here now, you’ve let him through. He has your hands, and you’re going to stay _open_ for him, right? Just like this. The walls are going to stay down, and you’ll tell us the _truth_ , whenever he touches you, whenever I remind you that you gotta stay _open_.”

Sabo had gone so slack and relaxed that for one hysterical moment, Marco wondered if he might drool.

“And it’ll be fine, remember, because after this, once we’re both inside? We’ll build everything back up for you as good as new. Rebirth out of fire, right? You’re doing perfectly, Sabo. When you feel me touch your cheek you’re going to come back up, but you’re going to remember: Marco’s touch, and _open_. Got it? You’re doing perfect.”

Instead of removing either of his hands from Marco and Sabo, Ace opted to stretch up, one knee braced against the edge of the bed, to kiss Sabo on the cheek. Sabo came instantly awake, head lifting and lashes fluttering apart. Despite all that, Marco still, for just a moment, tensed, expecting the moment to register, and for Sabo to rip his hands out from under Marco’s hold.

Sabo glanced down at the hands. Blinked.

Then he parted his palms to catch Ace’s hand in one, and Marco’s in the other.

Looked up at Marco with genuine regret in his expression.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding honest, which was not Sabo-like at all, but this _was_ Sabo. This was the Sabo that Marco first met masked and sarcastic in the snow. This was the Sabo that Marco’s gotten to know, through throttling attempts and drowning attempts and _Impel Down_. This was the Sabo that he’s come to love, irreversibly deep, with every game and negotiated lashing, every night of secretive smiles traded over the top of Ace’s sleeping head. “Sorry I disappeared on you.”

One of their hands touched Marco’s cheek and fingers swiped away wet. Sabo’s lips pressed thinner, and he still looked so _honest_ , so _there_.

“Hey, Marco.” There was the briefest dart of his eyes over to Ace, before finding their way back to Marco with renewed determination and a husky voice. “I think we need to talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> So what Ace does to Sabo is supposed to be a [pattern interruption induction](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSCA6osMHx4). I'm still researching, but very _very_ excited about where I can take this.
> 
> My [tumblr](touchmycoat.tumblr.com), drop a comment~!


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